Some bare bones journal sketches from my first trip to France in Winter 2006...
Paris! Going to Wimbledon Station, walking gingerly over snow-covered sidewalks. Pulled out of Waterloo into snowy South London. The towns here look like suburban New Jersey, just as North London looks like industrial New Jersey. Went forward through England, then changed at the Chunnel and rode backwards through France. The English end looked like Mexico with the bilingual signs. French side more fortified, with parallel barbwire fencing. I never actually saw the Channel. Once in France, the train announcements were now in French first, followed by English, the reverse of the other side. The towns of France even look more European.
Paris! Home of some of the best art the world has ever seen. So why couldn't I create while I was there? Few photos, and no words. (I'm in a train waiting in Dijon as I write this.) I'm buried under the weight of history -- how could I present this city in a different way? Instead, I chose to walk and experience it -- stepping through the past and following the ghosts of those who'd inspired me, therefore using the city to build upon the artwork that is my life.
S. met me at Gare du Nord and after dropping my bags, walked to the Palais Royale for lunch at a Morrocan place. We caught up, and I liked the fact that the lunch spread out for two hours, with wine, espresso, etc. (Over my time in Paris, I'd come to love espresso.)
S. went back to work, and I wandered past the immense closed Louvre, past Les Halles, and the Pompidou, down into the Marais to get lost in its narrow streets. I found my way to Jo Goldberg's Deli, which I'd heard was a center of intellectual debate, but all I found was a couple of American students and some uninspired service. Pressed on to the scene of Jim Morrison's death, its side wall heavily painted. Walked on through the day into the falling light, following the maze of streets as the whim took me.
That night, S. and I went to dinner with other film people: J-M, a former actor/director, his wife, and L. an Australian born producer. When we got into the car, all was riotous, everyone talking and gesturing like crazy. At the restaurant it was more of the same, incredible amounts of food washed down by about a dozen bottles of wine brought with the shout of "Madame Mollier!" I felt that the French are incredible at enjoying life, so different than the Japanese. I also felt somewhat at sea, entering a new country where I don;t really speak the language, yet everybody looks like me, then to be whisked along on these mad fast-paced outings before i could get my bearings.
After dinner, J-M drove us around a nighttime Paris, which, despite the hype, was still unable to stun me. At midnight, we stood atop the Place de Varsovie, watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle. Later, from farther away, I thought that it looked like it was being beamed away a la Star Trek. It began to snow. We drove through the light falling snow looking at famous buildings, round and round roundabouts, and through the arches of the Louvre.
I slept late and went out around 11. There was plenty of snow on the ground, and it was still falling as I made my way to Notre Dame ("Our lady," J-M had repeatedly said last night.) I followed my Pais walking book, which took to all the major sites in literary history. It was an incredible book, leading me on a treasure hunt where the treasure was knowledge. I started at Shakespeare and Co., and wound my way over the Latin Quarter and the Rive Gauche until sunset. Kids played in the snow in various parks. Older kids would scoop snow off cars to throw at each other, a scene I'd see repeated all day. People wrote messages in the snow on car windows. Homeless sat on grates to keep warm, or huddled in vast doorways under piles of clothes.
On Ile. St. Louis, every person I saw had a camera. A house on the Island had a cracked facade, with a pigeons in the eaves. The back of Notre Dame, with its eerie gothic spires looked as if designed by Giger. Out front, a camera team was filming three men talking close while wearing elaborate robes. Women stood nearby, far warmer in furs. I sat awhile indoors, trying to warm up while reading Hemingway. An organ began to play. the nearby confessionals looked like interrogation rooms. there was a beautiful statue of Joan D'Arc, and on the other side of the church, a young woman knelt, looking up at Mary with rapture.
I eventually made my way to the Sorbonne where the students swarmed the cafes looking for lunch. I passed a man whose clothes clashed badly. Not everyone is fashionable in Paris.
At Deux Magots I had a plate of cheese to accompany my bread and espresso. As the hostess pushed in the chair across from me, I looked up into a faceful of cleavage. I read Hemingway with my lunch, self-consciously trying to hide the cover under the table. My waiter seemed chilly, but at the end of the meal, we talked a while about Japan.
Back on the street, I continued my zig-zagging path along the narrow streets, including one lined with galleries showing African and Asian art. Someone had written some racist graffiti on the window of some of these.
The sun had appeared by now, and was melting off the rest of the morning's snow. It was still a bit cold and I decided I needed more food to keep warm. I chose a cafe that was built on the site of Hemingway's favorite. I walked in and up to the bar. The guy behind it said nothing so I held up one finger. He gave me a puzzled look, so I said, "One man. I am one man." He said, "I am too." I smile embarrassed as I'm led to my seat. Then another guy gave me a look without speaking . This must be the game here. I don;t mind the famous surliness, and I started this whole thing acting like an idiot, a fact that was quickly being proven. I had been afraid to speak my basic and rusty French for fear of being judged, but by saying nothing, I've come off worse. Happily, my onion soup was tasty and warm, and I'm happy that it didn't give me gas like the cheap canned stuff does. The espresso that followed sent me on my way.
I wandered the rest of the day, musing at how small the flats of artists and writers were pre-fame, and how huge they were in proportion to their fame. I finally wound up on Rue de Fleurs and the home of Gertrude Stein. Amazing how this was the start of it all -- my walk, this journal entry, the 20s scene, Paris as the heart of the art world. I walked to the closed Jardin du Luxembourg, virgin snow covering it all. Flakes began to fall again, in the dusk with its dull light.
After a long tramp to the Seine, crossing Pont Neuf just below the point of the Ile de la Cite. It was exactly 7 pm, and the Eiffel Tower went all sparkly. I entered the Louvre through Pei's glass pyramid, then walked the long hall, past statuary brilliant in the dim blue light of night. I wasn't able to imagine this in the day. I walked along the old Italians, gallons of paint splashed out for the Popes. I was exhausted and was taking in too little, too drawn by what I saw out the windows and the life that created all this art in the first place. It had been less than an hour, but the heat and the crowds and the sheer scale of the place had worn me down. I retreated back to the flat.
S. returned around 9:30. Neither of us wanted to eat heavy, so we had dinner at a Cambodian place, which still wound up to be too much food. The service was great, the wine not so. S. and I discussed jazz far later than the owner might have hoped. Back at the flat, she introduced me to the world of digestifs, It became a late night...
(A suivre...)
On the turntable: Brian Setzer, "The Knife feels like Justice"
